


Tu Non Mi Basti Mai

by Nuraicha



Category: Muse
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuraicha/pseuds/Nuraicha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you can't get enough of who you love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tu Non Mi Basti Mai

**Author's Note:**

> [Blisstastic](http://blisstastic.livejournal.com/) and [Pwopahnetazeta](http://pwopahnetazeta.livejournal.com/) wanted some smut and I asked for a prompt. [Blisstastic](http://blisstastic.livejournal.com/) said 'whip' and provided a pic of Matt's arse. You can imagine where that led.
> 
> Also, first time writing a BDSM fic. I approached the concept briefly with my Doctor/Master fics but I never wrote it; I'm really surprised I got there with Matt and Dom, honestly.
> 
> Title from the song 'Eva' by Finley.
> 
> Thanks to [Pwopahnetazeta](http://pwopahnetazeta.livejournal.com/) for betaing <3

There is nothing but darkness all round. It's not as if there is much to observe, as you know this room by heart and the only piece of furniture present is an old wooden desk, not huge but not small either, with enough surface to lay your upper body on, the right height in order to allow you to rest your hips on the border and your legs to stand the movement. Yes, it is the perfect desk for what you two have in mind.  
  
However, even if the windows weren't closed and some source of electrical light illuminated the stance, you wouldn't see the old desk, for your eyes are covered with black silk. You love the familiarity of its touch, the comfort it brings you. You don't know which one you prefer, the soft fabric that makes you blind to the sight of the lean body of the man you love or the cold steel that holds your wrists together and won't let you caress, scratch and hit his tanned skin.  
  
Probably what you adore the most it is the sweet sting of the hard leather on your backside.  
  
The door opens, and he's here. He tries to be silent, to conceal his steps on the tiled floor, but your hearing has intensified in your time alone and blindfolded (how much has passed? Five minutes? An hour? You can not know. You only know your arms ache and your knees hurt. And you cherish these sensations). You smile when you listen to his small gasp of pure _want_. It was a great idea breaking just that exact slide of the blinds, as the only ray of light that enters the room shines across your chest, offering to him your alabaster skin to consume and devour, firstly with his eyes, later with his mouth.  
  
"Whore," he affirms.  
  
It's a fact, you are a whore and you both know it. And love it. You wish you could see what he is seeing, wondering what piece of your body is visible in the dark. You might not be an astronomer, but you have studied enough of the movement of the sun to guess the only thing he can observe is your nipples. Tempting puckered buttons of flesh, standing proud in the darkness, framed with miles of white skin. You almost can smell his mouth watering.  
  
He is now in front of you and you shiver in expectation, lifting adoringly your chin, inevitably exposing the terse flesh of your neck, begging silently for his teeth. You know he can't see the movement, but he knows how you will act and you're certain he can predict your actions.  
  
"You like it when I bite your neck." Another statement. A chill of sheer pleasure runs throughout your spine when he accompanies his words with the soft caress of his fingers. You can't help but let out a moan. You need it now.  
  
"What do you want?" His nails aren't long enough to leave deep marks but they sting nicely when he runs them along your neck, in the exact pressure to make them sting.  
  
It isn't enough; you need him to hurt you. But you won't pronounce the words out for him, not yet.  
  
The invisible path finally leads him to one of the parts of your body he loves the most. You let out a guttural groan when he scraps your firm nipples, finally leaving in your body that sense of pain you relish on.  
  
"Tell me." He's twisting them now, one in each hand, and you wish he would have brought the clamps. Maybe he has, but won't put them on you until you beg.  
  
"Hurt me." You're a whore, and certainly a very cheap one. You need him now, and you need him so desperately. Will you be lucky enough to have your desires satisfied?  
  
He chuckles and you feel his fingers caressing your scalp, playing with your hair strands and _finally_ pulling hard. You emit a sound of pain that shows just how much you like those sensations he's kind enough to give to you. You know you're the most fortunate man on the Earth for having him by your side.  
  
"Stand up." He lets go of your hair and you comply his order, even if your knees are wobbly and you're afraid of falling to the floor. Oh, but how much he would punish you for disobeying? You shiver in anticipation and moan loudly and unashamedly, wanting everything he can provide.  
  
Sadly, his arms surround your hips, his minty breath touches your face and you know you aren't going to fall this time. Or ever again.  
  
"Bend nicely for me on the desk, will you?" He lays an almost chaste kiss on your forefront and you nod eagerly, desiring nothing more than to offer your arse for his use. You crave for it, you need to be used, in whatever form he pleases. He owns you and you owe him your happiness.  
  
You know the room by heart, so it doesn't take you long to locate the furniture and bend over it. Only your chest is in contact with the wooden surface, as you know how much he hates when you try to get off rubbing your hardness against the desk. And you have made up your mind for tonight: you want to please him and be the most loyal whore he can think of. You will do exactly as he orders, and you will enjoy every second of it. You always do.  
  
"Did you already ready yourself for me?" He's behind you and you hold back the impulse to hump the table and beg for his cock. You stay still, aware of how stiff you are and how even your arse is _clenching_ , just waiting to be filled.  
  
"I did. I used that big dildo you got me for my birthday and I am very pleased with myself, sir, because I took it all the way in just with my saliva."  
  
And, finally, you hear him moan. You know he's imagining you, in your bed, sprawled legs and fucking yourself carefully, trying to avoid your prostate and totally neglecting your cock. You must come only in his presence.  
  
"You're my favorite whore," he compliments you fondly, and you feel as if your grin will break all of your face muscles. You've made me him proud, and that's almost your only aim in life.  
  
The first one is making him fall in love with you everyday, over and over, again and again.  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"Where do you want me to hurt you?" He asks, soliciting you, and your grin turns to a debauched smirk. You move just the slight inch in order to rub your nipples with the wood. You moan, craving him.  
  
"In my arse." You know he's smiling, even if you can't see him.  
  
"It's always about the arse. You love to be filled there."  
  
"I do. I do love your cock deep inside it. Please sir, hurt me." He fakes a disappointed sigh, and you see in your mind how smug his smile is right now.  
  
"You know it won't hurt if you have already prepared yourself. This is the only thing that can hurt you."  
  
Yes.  
  
Here it comes.  
  
"YES!" You scream in ecstasy, when finally you feel the first blow of the leather whip. "Yes!" You pant, releasing all the build up off your body through your rapid breaths. And this is only the start.  
  
He is touching your cheeks now, massaging them delicately, applying just the right amount of pressure to the left one, where the first blow landed. You moan, cherishing every shock of pain that runs through your nerves. It's delicious.  
  
"What do you love the most, the whip or a good old spanking?" He asks, while slipping without resistance a finger inside your core. You both moan and pant at the same time, adoring the brief sensation of fullness (it isn't enough. It just isn't enough. It's never enough with him), he loves how wet and stretched (but still tight. You're always tight for him. You're his perfect whore, after all) your arsehole already is. By the end of this, it will be wrecked.  
  
"I- I can't choose, sir," you pronounce with difficulty between parted moans of pleasure, as his only finger fucks you, so slowly; "I love the whip because it stings more, but the sensation of your bare hands on my flesh..." You moan, the thought of it adding fuel to your desire. You want him so much. "Shit, that's incredible. I would like to be spanked by you all day, sir." You confess, replaying tons of your filthiest fantasies in your mind. Sometimes, you think the only reason that makes a day worthy is the sensation of his punishing hands all over your body.  
  
"Fuck, Matthew." That's the sign. He isn't going to hold himself back anymore. He's going to fuck you like a beast, and he's going to batter your flesh exactly the way you like it: he's going to leave marks; he's going to hurt you. He's going to ruin your body completely, until you can't even walk straight. And the best part is that you have a concert tomorrow.  
  
You will make sure everyone can see at least a tiny patch of your marred skin. You want to show the world you're his, his and his alone. He owns your body, your heart and your soul.  
  
The second blow lands straight between your cheeks. You scream at the sheer pain that bathes each particle of your body. It's glorious.  
  
The third blow of the leather whip hits your inner right thigh and you can't help but jerk on the table, moaning and trying to control yourself. You can't get off of the edge of the desk, you simply can't. You need to please him.  
  
He rewards your self control with spanking each of your cheeks. You have to scream.  
  
"Fuck! YES!"  
  
You hear him laugh and the fourth blow goes to your right cheek. You don't even have time to moan when he lands another one at the left.  
  
You lost count. You're feeling too much pleasure, too much pain, too much desire. The blows land everywhere, on your thighs, on your cheeks, on your cleft. Each one of them is an absolute delight and your voice grows hoarse as your punishment continues.  
  
When you hear the whip hitting the floor, you're laying almost boneless on the table. You still refuse to relieve the painful pressure on your cock with the desk, you're just waiting for him. All will come in good time.  
  
He shoots the pain away of your flesh, massaging the sensitive skin of your arse with his hands, and you can't help but moan at the feeling. You both know the image you're offering without the need to see it: a gaping arsehole, red welts marring your buttocks and thighs, sweat covering every inch of your alabaster flesh, a permanently opened wet mouth and blown pupils, full of want.  
  
"Fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK ME!" You beg, firstly in almost inaudible whispers, then shouting at the top of your lungs, your voice deep and hoarse.  
  
He doesn't reply, for he knows it isn't needed, as the two of you are aware you can not control yourselves even a minute longer.  
  
When he rams himself inside of you, you let out a high pitched scream, hitting a long falsetto note.  
  
"Dom! Fuck, fuck! Fuck me!" You aren't conscience of your own words anymore. The only thing that matters now is his cock filling you, fucking you, his balls slapping at your flesh and his crotch colliding with a violent force against the tender skin of your arse. It hurts, and it's heaven.  
  
He's grunting against your ear, his nails marring your skin even more, this time of your sides, while he grabs your hips and controls the pace. You just take it, moaning and screaming as the slut you are, enjoying how he bites your shoulders, your neck, every inch he can reach. How he owns you.  
  
"Mine," he growls in your ear and you let out a blissful cry. It's the truth.  
  
It's fast and it's perfect. It's hot and forceful and painful and you love it. It's his cock ramming directly into your spot, over and over. It's the comfortable weight of his body against yours.  
  
You come without being touched, your falsetto note so high it rings in your own ears almost leaving you deaf to his ecstatic cries. Your orgasm is so powerful and so long, soaking the surface with rope after rope of pearly come, your whole body shaking with its force and your brain fills with nothing but pure bliss. He comes right after you, milking his orgasm while your core is still clenching, his hands pressing on your skin so hard that you know there will be bruises there in a matter of hours. He screams as well, and you're proud of hearing your name.  
  
You both might have passed out for a couple of minutes after climaxing, because his weight crushes you and your sweat is starting to feel unpleasant and cold. Still, you can feel his hot breath brushing your neck and you can't help but grin, feeling exhausted and aching all over, but completely satisfied and loved.  
  
"I love you." Carefully and with effort, you turn your head enough to say the words against his lips. His tongue caresses your bottom one, and you let him in, sharing a slow and deep kiss.  
  
"I love you too," he tells you right after, pecking you on the mouth tenderly.  
  
Some would say there can't be tenderness after such a rough encounter. They are stupid, ignorant fools. And they won't sleep that night with the man of their dreams, taking care of their bruises and spooning them. Fools, the lot of them.  
  
"I love you, Dominic."


End file.
